


what we deserve

by Zayrastriel



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 1920s Sexism, Any Angst Is Leta's Brain Being Terrible, Background Tina/Newt, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, Insecurity, Leta Does Not Die Here, Leta Lestrange Deserves Better, Leta Lestrange Gets Better, Overprotective Theseus Scamander, Possessive Behaviour, Praise Kink, Protective Theseus Scamander, Touch-Starved, mentioned former Leta/Newt, soft D/s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-10-07 19:05:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17371631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: "When Leta was seven, she saw her father lift up her tiny half-brother in his arms. She heard him whisper the wordbeautifulover and over; a word he would never direct her way.When she was fourteen, Newt held her by her waist and awkwardly mumbled the wordsyou’re really rather beautiful.It was the same tone that he used when stroking the mane of a unicorn filly.Theseus saysyou're beautifullike it's an indisputable fact, an undeniable universal truth."In which Leta learns that even monsters can be worthy of love, and discovers that her life does not need to be the tragedy the world has always demanded of her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a 1k one-shot. You can see how that worked out.

Leta first meets Theseus Scamander during a mid-morning break at a Ministry conference, about a week into her new position as Mr Travers’s assistant.

The first thing she observes as she looks him over is just how unlike Newt he appears to be. Where Newt would avoid meeting the eyes of anyone except his animals and Leta herself, the new Head Auror shakes her hand firmly, gaze expressionless and lips curved in a polite smile. His confidence is that of an older brother and head of a family, just as Newt used to say (or complain about, in any case).

“Miss Lestrange,” he greets her. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Congratulations on your new appointment.”

For a Gryffindor, the elder Scamander makes an excellent liar.

“You too,” Leta responds politely. “It is well-deserved. I’ve heard so many good things about you.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, she realises immediately. Though his expression never changes, something like repressed anger glints just for a moment in his eyes (and there he is like Newt). “I don’t doubt it,” he says, and his grip on her hand tightens slightly. “Not for some time though, I would wager, since you lost your informant.”

It isn’t surprising that he blames her for Newt. It’s only the truth, after all. Still, the slightest hint of disdain from someone who at one point she’d almost fancied would be her brother-in-law makes her flinch. She regrets again her choice of attire, wool-lined in deference to a London October but far too warm for the heated Ministry building and an added heap of anxiousness.

“Mr Scamander, I…” she begins, and then falters. What can she say? _I’m sorry_? Too honest. _It wasn’t my fault, I didn’t ask him to take the blame?_ Too Slytherin.

Whether thankfully or unfortunately, Scamander doesn’t give her the room to finish. “Save your breath, Miss Lestrange,” he interrupts. “While I respect your position and the contact between us that it will no doubt necessitate, I have no desire to communicate with you at all outside those bounds. Do you understand?”

Not like Newt at all. Not at all like the boy who waved goodbye to her as he walked away from Hogwarts, a final forgiving smile splashing over her like acid as she nodded brusquely in acknowledgement.

Perhaps she’s finally getting a little bit of what she deserves. Through proxy, but – “Understood, Mr Scamander,” she says quietly, and releases his hand.

“Theseus!” one of the other Aurors exclaims, approaching them. Leta takes the opportunity to slip away, grateful for once for the darkness of her complexion that hides her burning flush of shame.

* * *

 The worst thing about this new position isn’t the fact that Travers is rather a prick. It isn’t the condescending comments he makes towards her, not when she realises that he does the same to _everyone_ regardless of gender. It isn’t the occasional biting allusion to her skin or features that serve as physical and inescapable markers of the horror in which she was conceived. It isn’t even the fact that her role – despite a job description promising a stepping stone to a position that might actually allow her to use her magical skill and sharp mind – mostly involves sitting silently in a corner making the occasional note in Travers’s diary or fetching coffee and tea.

No. It’s the disdain that her family name attracts, that follow her whenever she leaves a room  of Aurors.

 _Dark magic, remember what she did in school_?

_Wasn’t her mother under the Imperius? Rotten to the core._

_Crazy. Evil. Think she’s a Grindelwald lover?_

It’s the fact that the disdain isn’t enough to spare her the resentful lust that swirls around some of them – _the crazy ones are the best lays_ – _if she looks anything like her mother, I can almost understand old Lestrange_ –

Those are the worst. They subside somewhat after the initial scandal of her existence in the Ministry fades, but even five months later her cursedly-sharp hearing still picks up too many unpleasant whispers.

Not all of the Aurors are like that, of course. The majority are at least polite to her face. Some of them are actually kind. There are four female Aurors – a paltry amount, and all of whom have been junior Aurors long after their cohorts have moved on – and they will invite her to sit with them for lunch from time to time. She prefers their company to that of the other assistants working on the same floor, most of whom are young and attractive women constantly vying for the affections of eligible men.

That doesn’t make up for the rest. It does not make up for the wave of guilt and shame that cascades over her whenever Theseus Scamander addresses her with unfailing politeness but otherwise avoids her like she is infected.

It certainly does not make up for Avery. Avery, who is one of the worst of the whisperers but also the worst of the sexist, lewd chauvinism that plagues the Ministry. Avery, who scoffs disparagingly when news arrives that Seraphina Picquery has been elected as the President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America.

He’s the person Leta tries most to avoid. It does not work particularly well.

* * *

Leta knows why she’s in the room – to retrieve a file for Travers that he insists cannot wait, though she knows that it can. As Head Auror, Scamander is entitled to use any room he likes for meeting and strategizing. Why it must be the primary archives room,she has no idea; but she’s not an Auror. It is none of her business that Scamander and five Aurors are planning a raid on an old Goyle family mansion that is a suspected Grindelwald hideout, but protected by an almost-impenetrable lock.

It is none of her business that the plans they are making have one fatal flaw. As Travers delights in informing her whenever she gathers up the nerve to make a tentative suggestion here and there, Leta is a personal assistant.

So she has absolutely no idea of what possesses her to interrupt Auror Scamander mid-sentence.

But she does, with a –

“That won’t work.”

With no small amount of disbelief (on both her part and the five men in the room) all eyes turn to her. Only Amelia Bones, who is perhaps the closest thing to a friend that Leta has here, looks at all pleased by her interruption.

“I…beg your pardon?” Scamander sounds about as disbelieving as Leta feels.

Still – she can hardly back out now. Before she can be interrupted, Leta hurriedly goes on to, say, “the charm provided by your informant, to break the locks on the Goyle mansion. The spell itself will not suffice. It needs to be cast by one of good character.”

“Good character?” the Head Auror repeats. Unlike the other men in the room, his expression is one of polite interest rather than disdain.

It gives her the courage to explain, “As you know, Auror Scamander, the Goyle family are blood supremacists. Inbred, paranoid blood supremacists.” Hastily – one can never be sure just who is related to who in the Ministry – she adds, “some of them, at least. For them, good character can only mean-”

“Someone of their family, presumably.”

“If not one who bears their name, then someone with at least a grandparent who did. Otherwise, the spell will…backfire.”

A loud snort. “And how do you know all of this, huh?”

 _Oh, blast_. Avery, of course. “I don’t see how that is relevant,” Leta replies coolly, keeping her gaze focused on Scamander’s expression. “You are of course at liberty to disregard my interruption, Auror Scamander, and I do apologise if it is inappropriate.”

“ _Not relevant_?” Avery exclaims. She isn’t sure whether it is her refusal to look at him or her tone, but she can practically feel the aggression radiating from him. “I’d say it’s quite relevant that you’re so knowledgeable about Dark magic, wouldn’t you think?”

“Take it or ignore it,”

Scamander shifts his gaze to the pile of papers before him, but Leta isn’t offended; he’s clearly thinking, processing this new information.

“Backfire,” he says finally, not looking at Leta. “In what way?”

“Oh, come on, Sir,” Avery starts to whine, “you can’t seriously-”

“Quiet, Avery,” the Head Auror snaps, not raising his voice but with enough harshness that the other man closes his mouth immediately.

Leta can feel his glare as attention shifts back to her.

“In my…from what I have heard,” she corrects herself quickly, “rather fatally.”

The Auror nods, clearly expecting such a response. “Very well,” he says, raising his head to look her in the eye. “Thank you, Miss Lestrange. The information is greatly appreciated.”

His tone is not warm, not exactly. But it’s warmer than anything he’s ever said to her. As she exits the room, Leta can feel Avery’s glare following her. It does not at all dim the smile that she only forces herself to quell when she is back at her office.

* * *

When the _incident_ occurs, she has been at the Ministry for almost nine months. After news circulated about her assistance in the Goyle mansion matter, Leta has noticed with relief that the rumours and whispers have died down almost completely.

The only person who continues them with any fervour is Avery. Amelia Bones, the unfortunate soul assigned as his junior partner, passes on the worst. Leta thanks her, though she secretly hopes that the woman will catch onto her disinclination to know just what is being said behind her back.

Particularly since she has greater concerns regarding the Auror. He begins to throw condescending endearments her way whenever she is forced to interact with him. Her approach of cool indifference begins to lose its effectiveness, particularly when the addition of casual verbal harassment is soon followed by an increasing encroachment upon her physical space.

Leta does not like endearments. She does not appreciate being touched, particularly when she pours so much energy into making herself seem untouchable. Endearments and touching have not been welcome from anyone since Newt left Hogwarts and she curled up in a hidden corner to cry till she ached. The thought of having those few previous, gleaming memories sullied is unbearable.

Least of all by Avery. Blasted Avery, who is currently already drunk only a half hour into post-work Friday drinks in the Magical Law Enforcement common area, his raucous laughter attracting annoyed stares from the rest of his colleagues. Even his team – including poor Amelia – with whom he sits are beginning to look uncomfortable. Who flails out a hand just as Leta walks past…

… coincidentally knocking over his glass. Before it can spill over her robes and shoes, Leta manages to snag it with a hastily outstretched hand. Drops of liquid pepper the pale grey fabric of her robe, to her annoyance. It’s sticky even through the sleeve, and silk is too delicate for a simple _Scourgify_.

Avery, the brute, lets out a coarse snort of amusement. “Oops. Thanks for that, sweetheart,” he says insincerely with condescension dripping from his tone, the alcohol meaning that when he looks her up and down, the lust is too obvious to ignore. It’s the most public he’s been with his harassment to date, and she can practically _feel_ the awkwardness radiating from some of the onlookers.

The temptation to unleash her anger – with her fist, at the very least – is immense. _Almost a year_ , she reminds herself. _Almost a year, then perhaps I can tell him where to put his filthy mouth_.

So Leta ignores the words. Turns away with the intention of leaving the glass in the kitchen sink before going home to determine how best to clean her robes.

Then she hears, “hey, darling! give me my glass back,” and feels the slap on her ass.

Even the most virulent haters of her family fall silent at that, watching with wide eyes as Leta freezes, then slowly turns back to face the man.

“Avery, it might be time to lay off the whiskey…” Amelia tells the man with some hesitation.

“What?” Avery turns away from Leta – dismissive of her, defensive towards his colleagues – to the other Aurors. “Just a bit of harmless fun, isn’t it?” It’s sinking in for him, though, she can tell from the slight tension and increasing awareness that’s breaking through his alcoholic haze.

“Come on, Avery-”

“Section 60HA,” Leta says quietly, cutting Auror Bones (though she makes a note to express her gratitude to the woman at a later point) as the attention of the rest of the table turns to her.

Avery blinks slowly, finally stuttering out a shaky “What?”

“Section 60HA of the British Ministry of Magic _Trespass to Person Act_ , 1920. Any person who without the consent of another person, and knowing that that the other person does not consent intentionally, sexually touches the person, is guilty of an offence,” Leta recites, proud of herself for her steady voice despite the sweaty palms that she resolutely does not curl into fists.

It’s not just this table, now. Mr Travers is thankfully long gone, but she has no doubt he’ll hear of this tomorrow. Still, she’s committed to the cause now. Avery’s face is flushed with more than just drunkenness now, brow beginning to twitch with anger.

 _Wand in my sleeve_ , Leta reminds herself as her gaze flickers to the belt that Avery’s hand is starting to inch toward.

“Look, this is-”

“Is something the matter?”

Leta doesn’t flinch at the sound of the elder Scamander’s voice, cutting cleanly through Avery’s blustering protestation. It’s a near thing.

“Just Lestrange being-”

Once again, Scamander interrupts Avery. “I believe that _Miss_ Lestrange,” and Leta almost balks at the venom in his tone till she realises that the title is being addressed to Avery, a not-too-subtle admonishment for the drunk Auror’s omission, “is perfectly capable of speaking for herself.”

All eyes turn away from Scamander towards Leta, who realises with some discomfort that the entire room has now fallen silent. Being the centre of attention has never served her well, and while the Aurors are nothing compared to the disdain of a room full of smug Gryffindor girls, it’s still a real effort to keep her hand away from her wand.

“I was merely providing Auror Avery with a timely reminder of certain aspects of legislation,” Leta says carefully. “I understand that the stress of the practical elements of an Auror’s work may preclude one from revision of legal technicalities, and thought it helpful to provide some assistance in that regard.”

Is that _admiration_ in the head Auror’s eyes? Reluctant, but still. “My apologies if it was an presumptuous path of action,” Leta adds, with a smile so aggressively polite directed at Avery that he visibly cringes.

“What do you think, Bones?” Scamander asks, attention flickering away from Leta for only the briefest moment before his gaze returns to her, once again sharp and unreadable. “Presumptuous, was it?”

From the corner of her eye, Leta spots Amelia shaking her head and obviously holding back a smile. “Not at all, sir. Just a helping hand.”

“Wonderful,” Scamander says briskly, finally looking away from Leta. “Then I trust that all of you will be receptive should Miss Lestrange – or any other of the fine ladies who work alongside us – feel the need to offer assistance of a similar kind. Is that clear?”

It’s a command, not a question. And Leta knows that it’s not for her, that it’s because Scamander is both very good at and very dedicated to his job. But it almost makes her feel protected, nonetheless.

“Yes, sir,” the rest of the Aurors mumble.

“Good. As you were, then.”

After a brief, awkward period of silence, the rumble of conversation slowly begins again.

Scamander returns his gaze to Leta as Bones carefully leads a somewhat-shaken Avery away. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Lestrange,” he says. Before she can even begin to think of an appropriate response to that – _thank you for helping me? What just happened? Why?_ – he’s walking away from her.

* * *

The best or worst thing to come out of that incident is that Scamander starts talking to her.

On Monday, Leta happens to arrive at the Ministry at almost the exact same time as the Head Auror. It isn’t unusual by any means, as he shares her propensity to arrive earlier and stay later. What is unusual that rather than stride across the hall to the elevator ahead of her, Scamander turns in Leta’s direction as she adjusts her robes and bag.

“Miss Lestrange,” he says, inclining his head in a polite acknowledgement.

“Auror Scamander,” Leta responds warily. _Likely because of the incident_ , she reminds herself. It would be only professional for him to be a little more courteous. “Good morning.”

Slowly, she begins to walk in the direction of the elevator.

“The absence of rain is a pleasant surprise.”

 _Oh, Merlin_ , she thinks with no small amount of horror, as she realises that he has fallen in step beside her. _He’s making small talk_.

Almost on default, her mouth responds with, “a rare occurrence in London, really. But pleasant. Yes.”

“Yes,” he repeats. “Well. Did you enjoy a satisfactory weekend?”

 _Please stop_ , Leta begs silently. “Uneventful.” It’s difficult to keep the awkward tension with which she is burning from spilling into her voice. “But pleasant. Like the weather.” She’s hoping desperately that this is as uncomfortable for the damned Auror as it is for her. “I read. At a tea parlour.” As they reach the elevator, Leta presses the button with a little more vigour than is perhaps necessary.

“That sounds most enjoyable,” and to her dismay, he actually seems somewhat _interested_. “I rarely have the luxury of reading – nor, if I am to be honest, the inclination.”

“Oh?” His frankness surprises her, but she appreciates it more than she thought she might. “I find it provides a wonderful escape.”

She sneaks a glance at him to see a slight smile on his face. From this angle, she can see the sharpness of his features. His is a face that will age well, that is on the border of too young for authority but holds the promise of it. “So I have heard,” Scamander says, with a hint of wistfulness to his tone. “Perhaps it is worth a return to the habit, though I would scarcely know where to start.”

 _Would you like some recommendations_? The question forms in her mind, when suddenly the elevator opens and brings her right back to earth.

“Miss Lestrange. Sir.” Amelia nods at the both of them, moving over to make room.

Leta is resolutely _not_ disappointed that the conversation ends there, before she has a chance to ask.

* * *

Leta starts thinking of Scamander as _Theseus_ about a week before her first anniversary of employment at the Ministry. It’s to differentiate him from Newt, of course. It’s not for the fact that by now she knows that he spends Saturday mornings meticulously recording all his work at home but then becomes wickedly drunk that evening to make up for it. It’s not because every Wednesday morning she spots him purchasing a croissant from the Muggle French bakery just down the road from the entrance to the Ministry. It has nothing to do with their occasional walk together to St James’s Park to eat lunch under the early autumn sun, a comfortable silence punctuated by the sporadic remark about their surroundings.

“One year,” the Auror says on the day in lieu of greeting her, as she carefully pours Travers’s daily morning coffee. A frankly disgusting drink, and a hallmark of her employer’s year spent working with MACUSA.

Leta smiles at him. “Good morning to you too, Auror Scamander.”

“I trust Avery has laid off by now, then?”

She thinks before answering, finally settling for, “he has done nothing that I cannot take care of.”

Unsurprisingly, that response does not dissuade him. “What has he done?”

“It’s really not worth the bother. A few rumours, the occasional – but again, Auror Scamander, it is all perfectly manageable.”

Theseus doesn’t seem convinced; angry, rather. “That spineless toad,” he almost _growls_ in a way that is absolutely not at all attractive to Leta. “We’ll see what rumours he spreads after-”

“ _No_ ,” she says with surprising firmness, which appears to distract the head Auror from his swelling rage. “I am able to handle my own affairs, and I would appreciate it if you were to demonstrate enough respect to accept that.”

The man deflates somewhat, looking a little bashful. “You’re right,” he admits. “I apologise, Miss Lestrange. A flaw of mine, or so I have been informed, is an overzealous tendency towards being protective of friends and family.”

“…We’re friends?”

A little crease appears on Theseus’s brow. “We eat together almost every day. I know that you have a kneazle named Bella, that you have a weakness for French pastries, that you rather despise the resurgence in corseted female wizarding fashion – an opinion with which I concur, as you know. Yes, I would say we’re friends.” He hesitates, then adds, “only if you agree, of course.”

“Of course I do,” Leta says just a little too quickly, heart fluttering. “Very much so.”

“I’m glad that we agree.” He smiles down at her, taking his mug in one hand. “Congratulations on your first year, Miss Lestrange.”

 _Thank you_ , Leta should probably say.

Impulsively, she reaches forward to touch her fingers lightly to his clothed forearm. “Call me Leta,” she says, before she can change her mind.

The Head Auror blinks, something like surprise flashing in his eyes before his smile widens. It sends something aflutter in her stomach. “Theseus,” he replies simply.

And then he walks away, because apparently allowing her the last word is unacceptable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Newt’s bitterness is almost completely faded by the photo he sends her in June 1913, of a rather grumpy-looking Erumpent attempting to strangle Newt with its trunk.
> 
> Leta wonders every year if her guilt will ever let her go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the accidental plot.

_The first letter Leta writes to Newt after he leaves Hogwarts ends up splattered with tears, inky smears rendering the shaky words barely legible. She writes it again in clear, precise cursive, her name signed neatly at the bottom._

_It says –_

 

Dear Newt,

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Regards,

Leta Lestrange.

_A month later, she receives a photograph by owl. It’s of the Eiffel Tower, Newt standing just to the side in a thick woollen blue coat. His awkward smile is only slightly tinged by a hint of sadness, and almost distracts from the weariness around his eyes_.

_On the back, in a familiar messy scrawl, is written –_

 

Dear Leta,

~~I adopted a Graphorn!~~

~~It’s fine, except it’s really not, and~~

~~The world is wonderful and I’m almost rather grateful~~

~~Did your father say anything, are you alright~~

I miss you too.

 

_Every month, she writes two copies of a letter. One she keeps, the other is folded neatly and placed in a vivid blue envelope – the same colour his coat seems to be. Two weeks later, without fail, she receives a photo or postcard, attached to a rumpled letter._

_They’re kept in an ornate gold box by the side of her bed. Twelve years of postcards and letters._

_Newt’s bitterness is almost completely faded by the photo he sends her in June 1913, of a rather grumpy-looking Erumpent attempting to strangle Newt with its trunk._

_Leta wonders every year if her guilt will ever let her go._

* * *

 

Travers warns Leta (with his usual dour brusqueness) that November will be busy. And it is; some evenings, it’s tempting not to even bother going home, not when she’s still at the office till two in the morning. It is _busy_ , particularly when Grindelwald’s fanatics seem unfairly incognisant of the rudeness of increasing their attacks ten-fold as Christmas approaches.

It is busy.

But Leta does not realise just how true that is till she’s woken up at midnight by a _very_ panicked Amelia Bones to realise that she’s slumped over at her desk.

“Leta! _Leta_ , wake up!”

“What is it?” she asks with a yawn, trying her best to rub sleep from her eyes without smudging her makeup.

“Grindelwald attack,” Amelia tells her, rushed and tense.

Leta pushes herself to her feet, suddenly very awake as she looks around to see that the office is completely empty except for the other woman and herself, even the usual night shift skeleton crew absent. “What? Where is everyone?”

“Down near the Bridge, I was just arriving for the night shift when Scamander’s message arrived, told me to summon down any wizards with duelling skills.”

“Everyone else? The Director?”

“On their way, but I thought you might still be here. Coming?” Amelia asks impatiently over her shoulder, already heading hastily towards the elevator.

Duelling is something that Leta avoids in general; but Theseus and the Director are down there… “I’m not an Auror,” Leta warns as she struggles to keep up with the junior Auror. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be.”

“ _Merlin_ , this bloody elevator!” Amelia kicks the door in frustration just as it opens. “Don’t be coy, Leta – I went to school with you.”

Leta doesn’t reply to that, focusing instead on hoisting up her robes – not at all designed for strenuous activity -  and running as fast as she can without her heels slipping on the smooth stone tiles after Amelia through the main hallway of the Ministry towards the exits. She isn’t given more than a moment to catch her breath when Amelia grabs her arm and rather unceremoniously (and not particularly elegantly) Disapparates with her.

The rough trip shakes Leta enough that she needs to close her eyes for a moment, swallowing down her nausea with some effort.

“Are you alright?” Amelia asks, her tone briefly softer as she sees Leta’s discomfort. “Sorry, it’s just…”

“No,” Leta says, dismissing the woman’s apology with a wave of her hand. “I understand.”

She more than understands when she opens her eyes to see the absolute chaos before her.

Amelia has Apparated them to one side of Tower Bridge, close enough to land that even if the structure to collapse, they would be safe. That doesn’t seem likely, at least; the attack hasn’t actually knocked down the main crossing. No; they’ve gone for something rather more dramatic, it seems. The tops of the two grand towers supporting either end of the bridge have been reduced to rubble, multicoloured flames hot enough to melt stone slowly eating their way down towards the main carriageway. It’s a sight is likely both bright enough and high enough to be seen through all of London.

“Is that Fiendfyre?” Amelia whispers, eyes clearly drawn to the same place as Leta’s.

“I don’t think so,” Leta says, but doesn’t necessarily feel reassured. The flames reek of Dark magic, and while it’s not quite the same scent that accompanies Fiendfyre, there are other spells that could be just as worrying.

The crossing itself is a haze of magic to Leta’s eyes, as masked wizards – Grindelwald’s followers, she assumes – battle against a mixture of Aurors and other Ministry officials. Most likely the majority of the Ministry’s skeleton crew and whoever else could be summoned in time. She can’t see Director Travers or Theseus, but there’s no time for the panic caused by that realisation; Amelia, a normally level-headed and practical Auror, is already running forwards to throw herself into the fray, not even taking a moment to scan the battlefield.

 _Idiot_! Leta thinks fiercely. But there’s nothing else to do, is there?

Two steps in, Leta stops to cast, with no amount of frustration, a Transfiguration charm at her high-heeled shoes. She ends up with practical (though frankly hideous) sandals, and makes a note to bemoan the loss of the former pair at a later date.

It’s obvious as soon as she examines the scene before her what the intent of this attack is. Grindelwald’s supporters outnumber the Ministry forces, but the Aurors are far more methodical and organised. Most of the masked wizards either go down or Apparate away at the earliest opportunity. That, combined with the way in which the bridge itself has been attacked, tells Leta that Grindelwald’s intent here isn’t actually to cause significant damage.

His followers don’t necessarily seem to agree, though. Four masked attackers turn to face Amelia as she sprints towards them. Obviously anticipating an eager target in the young witch, three of them are already out cold from rapid-fire Stunning spells by the time the last catches onto the fact that she’s Vanished the stone beneath his feet.

Any chance that the man might have Apparated his way to safety is eliminated as a terrified cry and loud splash reach Leta’s ears.

“Very impressive,” she pants as she finally reaches the Auror.

“Thanks,” Amelia says grimly. “I’m going to try to douse that fire. Do you have any ideas? And I don’t care where you might have learned them,” she adds when Leta hesitates slightly.

Leta has no real reason to believe the woman, but she does. Enough to say, “Deal with the Dark first, then the fire. _Purgo_ might be sufficient. _Purifico_ will likely be more effective, but it may drain.”

The Auror nods. “Thanks,” she responds. “Be safe.”

With that, the witch turns and runs. Leta casts a quick Disillusionment charm on herself before she moves forwards into the centre of the bridge, fairly confident that the utter chaos of shouted spells and constant movement will reduce any chance of it being seen through. Darting around duels and ducking to avoid being illuminated in the light cast by charms is second-nature to someone who spent most of her Hogwarts life doing the same.

One or two of the enemy wizards spot her, but not in time to avoid the silent _Stupefys_ and _Petrificus Totaluses_ that she shoots their way without hesitation.

She finds Travers and Theseus at the same time. The usually-antagonistic men are for once working in perfect synchronicity; they stand back-to-back, wordlessly shooting spells with terrifying speed.

It’s the first time she’s seen either of them fight, and it makes her understand immediately just why they’re in the positions they are in. Travers’s magic is mechanical precision, with piercing accuracy and immense power. Theseus’s is no less powerful; but his spells cast a wider net, holding an impenetrable ward around both him and the Director as he simultaneously casts waves of stinging fog and freezing air.

The confidence and ease with which he fights, the fluidity of his movements, it’s…breathtaking. Intimidating and breathtaking and absolutely beautiful. Enough that it takes Leta a few seconds to remember she should really be helping out.

A whispered “ _Cingo Totalum, Protego Totalum_ ” layers another ward over Theseus’s, almost as strong as his. The Auror obviously feels the added protection, because his eyes widen as he looks over the circle of attackers to pierce through the disillusionment charm and meet her gaze. The smile she receives is barely imperceptible, but still warms her inside.

 _Focus_. The two men are attracting the attention of all of the attackers, but Leta can’t risk losing a grip on her Disillusionment Charm.

It’s not an issue for long, thankfully. Once Theseus has retracted his ward, it’s a matter of minutes before Grindelwald’s forces are driven back by the two men, who manage to bring down at least a few before the rest Disapparate into retreat.

With a sigh of relief, Leta drops both the ward and the Disillusionment Charm; only to have to duck when the Director immediately shoots a _Stupefy_ at her.

“Director, it’s Miss Lestrange!” Theseus says quickly, pushing his superior’s arm down hurriedly as Leta cautiously rises to her feet again, wand held protectively before her.

“Of all the – what are _you_ doing here, Lestrange?” Travers demands.

She starts to say, “I came with Auror Bones,” but he cuts her off with a grunt.

“Actually, I don’t care. Good work with the ward.” Clearly done with dealing with Leta, Travers shifts his attention away from her.  “Prewett!” the Director barks at an approaching Auror. “What’s happening?”

“They’re retreating, sir,” the man says hoarsely, hair dishevelled. “Couple of strays, but we’re picking them off. Bones and some of the others put out the fire. Nott is organising transportation to St Mungo’s, and we’ve got Obliviators on their way to deal with the Muggles.”

“Small wonders,” Travers mutters. “Scamander, you get this lot back to the Ministry,” he orders with a gesture at the few unconscious wizards collapsed around them.

“Sir, I should assist-”

“Your Aurors can manage without their nanny for a few hours, Scamander,” Travers says over the top of the Head Auror. “Get it done?”

“Alone?”

The Director, either ignoring or simply oblivious to the irritation in Theseus’s tone, glances at Leta. “Need someone to hold your hand? Miss Lestrange looks available.” And with that, he’s stalking off with Prewett as Leta looks at his back with some bewilderment.

“Git,” Theseus mutters under his breath from beside her. “He’s bitter that he needed my help.”

All traces of annoyance fade though, when he turns towards Leta. He grins at her, running a hand through his sweaty hair before swiping half-heartedly at his damp brow. “Thanks for your help.” Though exhaustion is clear in his voice, his stance is still alert and eyes glimmering with energy. “Holding that ward and fighting at the same time was becoming rather difficult towards the end there.”

“My pleasure,” Leta says. Despite herself, a combination of Theseus’s adrenaline and the pleasure of actually using magic properly has her smiling back more widely than is usually comfortable. “Though you seemed to be doing quite well without me…holding your hand.”

She looks at the bodies around them to avoid his gaze when she says those last words. Transporting unconscious people is hopefully Theseus’s forte, because it certainly isn’t hers.

Theseus huffs out an exhausted laugh. “You allow yourself too little credit. Disillusionment is difficult at the best of times and that ward was stronger than most of my Aurors can manage.”

“You’re too kind,” she murmurs. There’s probably more that Leta could say, were she to allow herself to embrace the pleasing warmth of his compliments. But the tiredness is starting to hit her, and this will probably take a while.  “What do we do with these?” She gestures at the unconscious men.

“It’s rather tempting to simply dump them over the edge of the bridge,” the Auror says, not quite jokingly enough. “No, we use these.” He reaches into his pocket and holds up a handful of what look to be large, thick stamps. “Somewhat similar to Portkeys,” he answers her silent question. “Adhere them to a person, activate, and they’re transported to the Ministry’s holding facilities. Here.”

He hands her the objects. “They’re adhesive. Attach them, and I’ll activate the charms. Only on the ones that are still alive.”

Leta very deliberately does not ask who will take care of the dead.

It’s a simple task, but time-consuming. And while the activation spell sounds simple, Theseus’s wand arm is shaking slightly by the tenth.

“Finished,” she finally announces.

“Wonderful. I can’t thank you enough for your help, Leta. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

 _How is he so earnestly sincere right now_? “I’m glad to have been of assistance, though I have no doubt that you would have managed quite well in my absence,” Leta says lightly, with one final scan of the parts of the bridge that are visible to her, before turning back to Theseus…

…who is suddenly standing _much_ closer than she’d realised. The man takes a step towards her. They’re near enough that she can feel the body heat radiating off him. It’s a comforting presence in the London pre-winter midnight chill.

“Oh, Leta,” Theseus says, gaze warm and intense, “I can promise that there is no situation that you would not improve.”

 _Close enough to kiss_ , she thinks absurdly, because she is really quite exhausted and no one can be blamed for midnight post-battle madness, surely-

And then, over the Auror’s shoulder, Leta sees a masked figure stagger to his feet and raise his wand at Theseus’s unprotected back.

“ _Crucio_!”

“ _Behind you_!” she screams just as a red jet of light shoots from the enemy wizard’s wand, trying to bend around Theseus to cast a shouted _Protego._ He pivots on one foot, raising an exhausted arm.

Both of them are too slow.

Theseus crumples to the ground with a heavy thud, Leta barely able to get out of the way in time to avoid being pinned by his larger frame as he spasms in agony.

The wizard leans back against the bridge railing and laughs triumphantly, clearly elated at having been the one to take down the Head Auror.

Leta sees red.

“ _Imperio_ ,” she hisses. The man freezes, eyes suddenly blank and mouth drooping slightly. Theseus stills as the spell severs abruptly.

Leta isn’t sure which instruction floats to the surface out of the maelstrom of rage in her mind. Not until the man starts violently bashing his head against the side of the bridge. He doesn’t fall unconscious till more than a couple of hits after his head has started bleeding.

Leta doesn’t care. Not one bit. Not when, just as he finally collapses and the connection between her mind and his is severed, she hears her name being called.

“Leta…”

She crouches at Theseus’s side as the Auror’s eyes open slowly. They’re hazy and unfocused for a moment, before fixing on her face. “Leta,” he whispers. “Are you alright?”

 _Oh, Theseus_ , she thinks fondly. His fingers are twitching slightly from the aftermath of the _Cruciatus_ , but otherwise he appears to be fine. “I’m wonderful,” she tells him quietly.

“Yes, you are,” he whispers with a hazy grin, and then passes out.

* * *

 

_Some day in November 1925 (I can never keep track of dates)_

_Dear Leta,_

_Canada is rather marvellous. I managed to save a Re’em – they are indeed real, regardless of what the Professor used to insist!_ – _from some absolutely horrid poachers._

_They were going to kill her, can you believe? Even from a mercantile perspective, and disregarding the mere fact that all creatures should have the right to legal protection (a matter for another letter), such an action simply defies logic. The rarity of its blood alone should have dissuaded them from leaving the poor girl in the state in which they had placed her. Absolute atrocity._

_Sally is thankfully now safely in convalescence in my suitcase, and I hope to return her to a safer area in due course._

_The scenery is quite nice, too._

_My brother Theseus informs me that you and he have become better acquainted through your work together. Despite some initial recalcitrance, he  appears quite fond of you, and speaks with no small measure of admiration about your talent and character. I am glad to hear that he has not made the mistake of disregarding your skills and brilliance, which as you have made mention of in our correspondence appears to be the rather backward approach on which the Ministry continues to insist. My brother is a most stodgy fellow, but he is a good man and protective of those for whom he cares ~~(it is very frustrating at times)~~. _

_As we are both aware, talk of emotion and sentiment does not come naturally to me. For this reason, I fear that I may have neglected to assure you that I hold no bitterness towards you regarding the events of our sixth year at Hogwarts. I have expressed a similar sentiment to my brother, who seems to finally be taking my words to heart. My support for both of you is unconditional and wholehearted._

_Though we have not seen each other in some time, dear Leta, your continued friendship and company has been a most wonderful and desirable constant during my travels._

_Yours,_

_Newt._

_P.S. Be careful. He’s a hugger._

_P.P.S. Please, I beg you, do not tell Theseus about the Re’em. He has still not quite recovered from the nundu._

* * *

Theseus is not discharged from St Mungo’s (despite no small amount of complaining to unimpressed Healers, and a quietly amused Leta when she visits) for three days.

Of course, the first Leta knows of this is when he storms straight past Leta’s desk and into Director Travers’s office, door slamming shut behind him loudly.

Leta sees the Aurors exchange confused, then increasingly amused, glances as muffled shouting emerges through the walls. A few minutes later, the Head Auror exits the room with the closest to a mutinous expression his face is likely capable of mustering.

As his footsteps fade, the office falls into an uncomfortable silence.

Eventually, Amelia ventures to say, “should someone go after him…?”

She’s looking straight at Leta as she speaks – as, for some reason, are rather a large number of the other Aurors. Leta sighs.

“It’s time for my lunch break, yes.”

There’s a collective sigh of relief around the office when she stands and follows after Theseus.

She finds him at the elevator, back stiff and anger radiating off him. “Mandatory leave?” she asks quietly.

“Till next week.” He replies without looking at her – an unusual level of discourtesy that Leta hasn’t experienced since the early months.

For a moment, a wave of panic swells up within her; one that she’s been suppressing these past few days, because –

 _“_ Imperio _,” she hisses. The man freezes, eyes suddenly blank and mouth drooping slightly._

  _Did he hear_?

That has been the question on her mind, every single time she has visited the hospital. Every single time his eyes have flashed in annoyance at Leta’s reminder not to move his head too much.

 _He’s just annoyed at not being able to work_ , she tries to reassure herself. Theseus did not become Head Auror by being the sort of person to enjoy idleness; it’s perfectly understandable that such a directive, particularly from the textbook workaholic Travers, would grate on him.

“Lunch?” she offers.

The man exhales heavily, before finally turning his head towards her. His expression softens slightly. “Please. Hospital food is…”

He shudders.

* * *

“I received a letter from Newt this morning,” Leta says hesitantly to Theseus as the waitress floats their empty plates away.

To her relief, mild interest but no surprise crosses the Auror’s expression. “Wonderful,” he replies with a smile. “We prefer to hold any lengthy conversation by Floo, it simply hasn’t been possible since he went to Canada. How is he? Has he found some other ghastly creature to add to that ridiculous collection of his?”

Leta laughs, both at the words and the fondness they hold. “He told me not to say,” Leta confesses.

“Oh, Merlin,” Theseus sighs. “Leta, I beg you – at least tell me, is it worse than the nundu?”

She’s helpless in the face of his pleading expression and laughing eyes. “Are you familiar with Re’em?”

“I’m Newt Scamander’s brother, Leta. Of course I am.” He blinks. “Wait – he’s branching out into mythical creatures?”

“Not so mythic, apparently.”

Horror and amusement compete for dominance in his eyes at her words. “That boy will be the death of me. Did he say anything else?”

His tone is casual but she detects just a hint of some underlying tension. It makes it impossible not to wonder just what they exchange during their Floo calls.

“Apparently,” Leta tells the Auror slowly, her voice serious. Slight alarm widens his eyes as she pauses. “Apparently, Auror Scamander, you’re a hugger.”

Theseus’s laugh is clear and loud. It attracts a mixture of irritated and surprised glances from some of the nearby tables. It both startles Leta, and warms her from the inside out, with a gentle heat that is completely unlike the more familiar burning flush of shame or anger.

“Well,” he says when he has calmed down somewhat, though mirth still fills his voice, “perhaps that’s true. But only, I will add, for people who matter.”

He glances at his pocket watch, and frowns. “I suppose you should return to the office,” the Auror mutters with no small amount of sourness.

“And what are you going to do?” she asks, already knowing that an honest answer will not involve rest, nor any intention of using the time off to actually do something other than work.

The man shrugs. “There are more than enough files at my house for me to…”

Leta clears her throat. He looks up at her again, and trails off.

“…sleep with. I mean.”  

“I see.”

“I have no intention of…that is…of course…”

She keeps her expression blandly neutral.

“Alright, I acknowledge your point.” His attempt at a suitably deferential tone is undermined by the twitching corner of his mouth.

It widens into a grin when Leta finally takes pity on him and smiles, rolling her eyes. “I live in hope, Mr Scamander.”

Leta stands as he does, steadying the table while Theseus edges carefully around the table to her side.

What follows is the barest of touches around her shoulders as Theseus leans down to brush his lips against her cheek. It would almost be amusing – his height and the fact that Leta is seated mean that he is almost bent double – but Leta is too paralysed by the faint scent of expensive cologne and the feeling of soft lips against her skin.

Physical affection – foreign.

 _Public_ physical affection – just – never. Never in her life.

She stares at him when he pulls back, her mouth hanging slightly open in shock.

“A hugger, remember?” Theseus says smilingly. “By the way, Leta,” he adds as he walks to the door, “speechless is a good look on you.”

 _One day,_ Leta thinks with determination. _One day, it’ll be him that’s left speechless_.

* * *

 

_21 November 1925_

_Dear Newt,_

_You have always been, and continue to be, hideously and unfairly kind._

_Your brother has been extremely generous in his treatment of me, and I can assure you that any initial friction has been (to my knowledge) resolved._

_Do you envisage a return to London in the near future? I understand if you decide against, for Grindelwald poses no small threat. If you choose to return, it would be a pleasure to hear about your adventures in person, and to reminisce on old times._

_Yours,_

_Leta._

_P.S. Thank you for the warning._

_P.P.S. I’m afraid to say that I told him. I promise that I put up a worthy fight._

_P.P.S. Sally? Really?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're getting there, I promise! As soon as (hopefully) next chapter, provided that no additional unplanned plot manifests again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple of days later, she catches the tail-end of “rescued him from Nuremgard’s dungeons” while rounding the corner into the main office. That afternoon, two of the younger women exchange rumours in the bathroom that a rogue batch of Amortentia made its way into Auror Scamander’s tea, and that only Miss Lestrange’s insistence on always carrying an antidote – a tragic product of her “you know, with her mother” – had saved him from certain public disgrace.
> 
> The first theory pleases Leta rather better than the latter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late update!! The law and PhD life is a tiring one. 
> 
> The next chapter is basically written, if that helps.

While early December is hardly any less busy than November, it is for a number of far less worrying reasons. Amongst the captured Grindelwald supporters were one or two members of at least mid-level importance to the Dark wizard’s movement. As far as can be determined, the show of strength by the Ministry’s Aurors was sufficient enough that attacks on the British Isles are easing off.

The unspoken consequence of that is, of course, that those forces are shifting to focus on the continent instead. Nevertheless, things are at a lull for now.

Theseus continues to be almost unbearably charming. His warmth towards her seems to have played no small part in thawing the sentiments of those Aurors who had previously looked on her with mild disdain.

This change in behaviour might also have been helped by a certain offhand remark by the Head Auror that, “ _it is fortunate that Miss Lestrange was kind enough to save my life, Goyle, or I would have been spared the pleasure of rewriting whatever you seem to think passes for case notes_.”

Leta does not answer when the other secretaries eagerly ask her what Theseus meant by that, and as far as she knows, Theseus offers no further details.

A couple of days later, she catches the tail-end of “ _rescued him from Nuremgard’s dungeons_ ” while rounding the corner into the main office. That afternoon, two of the younger women exchange rumours in the bathroom that a rogue batch of Amortentia made its way into Auror Scamander’s tea, and that only Miss Lestrange’s insistence on always carrying an antidote – a tragic product of her “ _you know, with her mother_ ” – had saved him from certain public disgrace.

The first theory pleases Leta rather better than the latter.

* * *

Winter has never suited Leta. She has taken after her mother in that, or so she must assume from her father’s love for the icy chill of the northern French winter. Yet now, she is more content, she thinks, than she has been during any summer. Even the late nights she spends at the Department, rushing to complete the rather ridiculous workload thrust upon her by Director Travers, cannot douse the warm glow that lingers every time she talks to Theseus or eats lunch with Amelia and some of the other female Aurors.

“You look well,” Amelia says one evening during a lull in conversation, as she watches Leta stir milk through her coffee. 

Leta can’t help the surprised glance she casts the Auror’s way. “I’m drinking coffee at seven o’clock in the evening in order to face the pile of paperwork on my desk,” she replies dryly, turning her attention back to the coffee. It is going to taste horrendous, she thinks glumly; but the only other option is a potion. “It’s kind of you to say, but I rather suspect that I have looked better.”

“Good luck with those, by the way,” Amelia tells her with real sympathy. “But – you look happier, is what I mean. Than you were when you started here. And I’m glad. Is all I wanted to say.”

She thinks about waving off the comment. But when she looks towards the Auror to do just that, the sincerity in the woman’s expression gives her pause.

“I am,” she says finally, with reluctant honesty. “I am.”

Amelia casts her a small smile. “See you Monday,” is all she says in response.

The coffee mug radiates heat as she carries it into the office.

It’s a heat that disappears immediately at the realisation that Avery is lounging against her desk.

The man clearly hasn’t changed out of his robes, and doesn’t even look to have bothered with a quick _Scourgify_. One of his hands is clutching tightly to his wand. The other…is holding a photo frame.

It holds a photograph of Leta’s mother, standing in front of the Arc de Triomphe. Her hair is down and moves slightly with the wind, her expression sunny and carefree. One of the few photographs that she has managed to scrounge from old newspaper clippings or requisition (steal) from her father.

“ _Miss_ Lestrange,” Avery says with a wide grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Having a good evening?”

“Auror Avery,” she replies cautiously, slowly setting down the coffee in her hand. Perhaps if she Summons the photo frame before he realises. There’s no one else in the office, after all – no one will notice if she Stuns him, will they?

The emphasis does not pass Avery by unnoticed. It unfortunately does not have the intended effect, because his smile only widens. “Been so good to see how well Scamander’s recovered,” he says, in a tone that indicates rather the opposite. “Cruciatus isn’t a pleasant experience, is it?”

Leta ignores the bait. “Do you need anything? I was actually just about to go and keep Auror Scamander company.” A cautious step forwards has the man tensing up, however, and she freezes on the spot. “So if you don’t mind…?” She gestures with her left hand to her desk and the work satchel placed on top, the fingers of her right hand ready to flick her wand from her sleeve into her grip.

 _Don’t be paranoid,_ she chides herself. _He is an Auror. This is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_. _Everything is fine._

“Oh, by all means.” He places the photo frame back in its place. Leta could almost cry in relief.

She keeps a careful eye on Avery as she approaches, but he says nothing else. Not as she packs up her bag (placing the photo frame in it in the process). Not when she casts a polite smile in his direction before backing away.

It’s when she’s several feet away, when she finally feels comfortable enough to turn her back on him, that Avery says, “I saw something interesting that night, Miss Lestrange.”

She halts, half-turns to face him. “Oh?”

“One of Grindelwald’s pets,” he says. The Auror is no longer smiling, but his eyes are the same. Pupils blown wide, the whites blood-shot. “Same one who attacked Scamander. What was it you used on him?”

 “Just a _Confundus_ ,” Leta lies. Desperately, she wishes that the adrenaline from earlier in the night would return to course through her veins. Instead it’s a sweaty chill that is washing over her.

“Huh. Right.”

“Yes.” _Don’t react_. “Now if you’ll excuse me...” Eager to escape the man’s gaze, she turns around.

She knows it’s a mistake as soon as her back is to him.

“ _Expelliarmus_.”

The spell fires straight into the centre of Leta’s back. Her wand is practically ripped from her grip as she stumbles to her knees with a hard push that knocks the breath out of her.

“Dark magic,” she hears Avery say behind her. “You think I’m stupid? Aurors are all trained to recognise Unforgivable curses, Lestrange. _Especially_ the Imperius.”

Slowly, carefully, Leta rises and turns on shaky legs to face the man. His wand is aimed at her, other hand clutching Leta’s own wand ( _her wand_!)

“Auror Avery, I was just trying to help,” Leta says gently, keenly aware of the wildness of his gaze and the weapon that is pointing unwaveringly at her chest. “Please-”

“ _Dark magic_!” the man screams over the top of her. “I knew you were rotten the minute you dirtied Hogwarts with your presence, and now you’ve proven it.”

 “Please return my wand to me,” Leta tries. She attempts to take a slow step forwards but he tenses. She freezes on the spot, not willing to risk having a spell cast at her. “I’ll happily cooperate, I promise.”

He scoffs at her. _Don’t be angry_. “You’re a criminal, Lestrange. You think I’ll believe anything you say? Let’s see what the Wizengamot says about you getting your wand back.”

It isn’t so much the fact that she’s wandless that is keeping Leta tense with alarm; after all, she’s far from defenceless. It’s Avery’s expression of vicious glee and barely-restrained paranoia that stops her from stunning him wandlessly.

(That, and the fact that she’s not sure that wandless and wordless are a feasible combination just at this moment.)

“I was trying to help,” Leta says as calmly as possible. “If you’d merely listen-”

“ _Silencio_ ,” he hisses, and her voice cuts off as the spell slaps her across the face in a vicious invisible blow that splits her lip open with its force.

The shock has her staring at her fingers when she grazes them across her mouth, the vivid red of her blood smudging over her nails.

“Always wanted to shut you up, Lestrange.” He’s too close now. The last man to be this close to her was Theseus, comfortingly large; but this is the exact opposite as he circles around her and looms over her shoulder. He reeks of alcohol ( _of course_ ) and malevolent magic – not-quite Dark, but only just. His wand-tip is a cold sharp pressure against the nape of Leta’s neck.

Desperately, Leta scans the rest of the office – but it’s empty. Obviously. Seven o’clock on a Friday night, when most of the Aurors are itching to leave by five. As Leta would have, if she only had a life outside of the paltry affections of _colleagues_. “If you plan to arrest me,” she whispers shakily, “then please do so according to _Auror_ regulations.”

The pressure of his wand becomes painful as Avery pushes himself hard against her. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he tells her, suddenly terrifyingly calm. The hand holding her own wand wraps around her high bun and _pulls_ with calculated viciousness, forcing her neck into a painful arch.

Something presses against her back, and _that’s definitely not a wand_ crosses Leta’s mind with a tinge of hysteria-  

“What’s going on here?”

Avery flinches. Attention distracted, the pressure against Leta’s neck eases as he steps back slightly and shifts to look behind him, releasing her hair in the process.

Leta takes her chance.

Her right heel slams into the Auror’s knee as she pushes a raw burst of magic through her left hand to drive him backwards, following the motion of her kick to drop to the ground and just barely avoid being hit by a spell that shoots over her head.

“ _Accio_ wand!”

Leta rolls onto her back as her wand flies from Avery’s pocket straight towards her. In one smooth motion she’s back on her feet and casting a Disarming spell at the disoriented man. His wand is ripped from his hand to soar backwards through the air and straight into Goyle’s desk.

Theseus catches it with ease as he strides towards Leta – not even slowing down when he knocks the other man to the floor with a powerful punch. to wrap an arm around Leta as she stumbles slightly.

 “I can stand,” she mumbles, but leans into the touch even as she speaks.

He casts her a quick smile before turning his gaze back onto Avery as the other man slowly staggers to his feet. The back of his head is bleeding from his collision with the desk on which he leans for support. Unsurprisingly, Leta feels no sympathy and more than a little satisfaction.

Her lip is still bleeding sluggishly.

“I don’t doubt it,” the Auror replies soothingly, his voice deliberately light.

“Theseus,” Avery rasps out, only to be cut off when Theseus points his own wand directly at the man.

“You lost the right to use my name,” Theseus says coldly, arm never wavering, “the moment you _thought_ about attacking Leta.”

“Look-”

Again, Theseus cuts him off. “What the _fuck_ were you doing?” The curse word, which Leta has only ever heard from American delegates, is brutal and fierce in Theseus’s precise accent. She can’t help but flinch.

The grip around her waist squeezes slightly tighter. “Apologies,” he murmurs, fingers stroking her side. “I…”

“Lestrange used an Unforgivable,” Avery’s voice cuts through harshly. “Grindelwald’s attack. She’s a criminal, Scamander.”

Leta averts her gaze from Avery towards the wooden panelling on the floor; so she senses, rather than sees, Theseus’s head turn in her direction. “Leta?” Theseus’s voice is still soft, careful.

She swallows heavily before she responds. “I did,” Leta admits. It’s easier than she thought it would be.

“When?”

He still isn’t raising his voice or changing his tone. It’s confusing.

“The man who _Crucio_ ed you.”

“You were scared,” he surmises, still bewilderingly gentle. “For yourself?”

“For you,” Leta responds hesitantly. “I was too angry to fear for myself.” The honesty receives a quick intake of breath.

There’s a slight pause before he asks, “but you were in danger, yes? It was entirely possible that he might have inflicted the same upon you.”

Finally, she looks up and towards him. “Yes,” she says with a frown. “But…”

 “Avery,” Theseus says, not looking away from Leta even as she looks sideways towards the other Auror, “are you familiar with the 13th Amendment to the _Magical Crimes Act_? More importantly, are you familiar with the _exemptions_ to the 13th Amendment?”

Avery looks confused for a moment, about as confused as Leta feels. And then the Auror’s face pales slightly, as Leta relaxes.

“But-”

“Banning the use of Unforgivables except in instances of duress, influence of the Imperius Curse, or…?”

“In self-defence as might be considered justifiable by the reasonable man,” Leta finishes, and her last shards of guilt shatter into nothingness.

“Exactly.” Theseus’s arm leaves Leta’s waist, and he approaches the other man. Avery tries to back away, but only ends up pressed further against Goyle’s desk.

“You’re fired, Avery,” Theseus says coldly, drawing himself up to his full height to tower over the man. “You will leave the building this moment. Your belongings will be owled to you on Monday. If I ever see you in this office again you will be removed. And,” he adds as the other Auror – _former_ Auror, now – begins to protest, “if you even think about going over my head, I will not hesitate to have _you_ arrested for assaulting a Ministry employee.”

With that, Theseus turns his gaze dismissively away from Avery and towards Leta. “Miss Lestrange, if you would accompany me…”

It is hard to resist the temptation to glance in Avery’s direction as Leta walks past him (flinging his wand with no small amount of vicious satisfaction to the floor behind her as she does so). She follows Theseus, noting with some apprehension the tension in his shoulders. Being behind him and with no clear sight of his expression, she also has no opportunity to gauge exactly what is fuelling that tension.

He leads Leta out of the main office and down the hallway towards his own, opening the door and gesturing for her to enter. She casts a fleeting look at his face as she obliges, but it gives nothing away.

The frustrating neutrality does not give way till Leta has taken one of the two uncomfortably hard wooden chairs opposite the desk from his own.

She expects him to sit down at his own chair at the other side of the desk. Instead, it’s at that point that the Head Auror exhales heavily, shoulders slumping. Leta awkwardly swivels sideways in her seat to peer at him, thankful for the lack of chair arms.

“Bloody hell,” Theseus sighs wearily, rubbing his forehead as he paces back and forth. “What a mess.”

Leta flushes, shame once again welling up within her. “I’m sorry…”

He stops suddenly to frown at her. “It’s not your fault,” he tells her, tone matter-of-fact as though her apology seems ridiculous to him. “I’d been trying to find a solid reason to fire him for more than a year – if anything, you’ve done me a favour.”

Leta definitely does not feel that way, and is about to say so when he continues, “promoting someone in his place is going to be a nightmare. Do you know how many Aurors will be wanting his position? How many applications I’ll have to sift through?”

There is likely more to Theseus’s obvious frustration than that, but it is impossible not to be appreciative for the man’s obvious desire to not worry her. “I can help you with that,” she offers. “At least in narrowing down your potential options.”

He smiles at her. She returns it – then instantly regrets that, as the clot on her lip breaks and fresh blood begins to flow, coppery and warm.  Theseus’s gaze narrows, smile gone in an instant. “Your mouth. And your knee,” he adds, casting his eyes over her body. Her stockings are ripped, she realises. The Auror moves forward swiftly and kneels before her, pulling out his wand.

“I’m fine,” she begins.

“Leta, be quiet so I can heal you,” Theseus murmurs, and begins to cast wordlessly. She wants to object – she’s never been a fan of allowing others to use magic on her body, no matter the intention – but his spells don’t sting the way those of Healers and Mediwizards often do. They’re warm and soothing.

 “I’m sorry,” Leta says quietly once he pulls away. They both rise to their feet. “You’ve been very kind to me, and-”

He presses a finger to her newly-healed mouth. “You haven’t done anything to apologise for,” Theseus tells her, just as quietly but with a curious intensity in those dark eyes.

It’s the sincerity that sets off her shivering; but once it starts, delayed shock and the residual exhaustion lingering from his Healing keep it going. Shivers become shudders that become full body shaking.

Before Leta can begin to process the movement, Theseus’s arms are wrapped tightly around her, one of them lifting to her head to pull her gently into his chest and stroke through her hair. The fingers of his right hand move lightly against her back. A wandless, wordless Warming Charm. It settles into her bones and relaxes her muscles, easing the soreness of her scalp where Avery had so violently tugged at her.

Newt’s letter flashes in her mind – _He’s a hugger_.

It’s the comforting presence of his magic that gradually soothes Leta’s shivering as she relaxes into him. That, and the heat of his body through the fabric of his shirt, no thick woollen coat to provide a barrier this time. The light, familiar scent of his cologne fills her nose, not oppressive but welcome.

Leta has never been one to enjoy restriction of movement. But this isn’t restricting.

For the first time in a long time, Leta feels safe.

For the first time in a long time, Leta tentatively raises her arms to wrap around someone else. She turns her head to rest her cheek against the Auror’s chest.

When he finally pulls back – is it after a few seconds or ten minutes? – it’s to press surprisingly soft lips against her forehead; gentle but lingering. “Would you like me to escort you home?” he asks when he pulls back, eyes kind and warm.

The thought is tempting. But she is still Leta Lestrange, and even though this is Theseus Scamander, who has seen more of her vulnerability than almost any other, her Lestrange blood is itching for the cold protection of solitude.

Blessedly, she needs to say none of this; for before she can open her mouth to speak, Theseus has released her from his hold, though one hand lingers on the left side of her waist.

“I understand,” he says simply, no judgement in his tone. “May I write to you tomorrow?”

Her smile is small but unforced. “Of course.”

Theseus steps away, and his smile is so full of fondness that Leta’s chest cannot but ache at the sight. “Goodnight, Leta,” he murmurs, voice thick with some unidentifiable emotion.

She can only nod, then Disapparate to the safety of her house before he can do something else to steal a piece of her heart away. 

* * *

Leta’s favourite tea shop to visit on a Sunday afternoon, Alchemy, is a Muggle establishment located just across and down the street from St Paul’s Cathedral. Part of the reason is that Muggles simply make better tea (a controversial stance, but one that Leta holds firmly). The other is that here she runs no danger of encountering other wizards or witches from the Ministry, most of whom live (as does she) near either the Ministry itself in Whitehall, or else near Diagon Alley. The owner of Alchemy recognises Leta now, brings her pot of tea and small jug of milk to the corner table that is always free for her.

It is particularly welcome today, after the incident with Avery not two days before.

 “You read Muggle books?”

So engrossed in the book is she that when Theseus suddenly speaks from over her shoulder Leta lets out a most unladylike yelp of surprise, her knee kicking into the table so hard that the tea almost spills. The man is polite enough not to laugh, but he clearly cannot prevent the smile that touches his mouth.

“Apologies,” the Auror says as he steps back – and only then does she realise just how close he had come to her – and moves around the table, seemingly oblivious to Leta’s shock at seeing him. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” His expression is more contrite than is warranted, till she remembers – _Avery_.

“You didn’t,” she reassures him hastily. “I’m simply rather unobservant when in the presence of good literature.”

Theseus’s expression relaxes. “I understand. Is this seat…?” he trails off, gesturing to the wooden chair into which he has already begun to slide.

“No, by all means…Would you like some tea?”

“Not this time,” he demurs, and Leta waves away the approaching waiter accordingly. “I was just taking a stroll before returning to the office and saw you through the window. I had no intention of being a bother.”

“It’s no problem,” she says quickly, hand twitching unbidden towards him as though to stop him from leaving. “Not at all.”

And she means it, Leta realises with some surprise.

Theseus smiles, eyes fond. “I’m glad to hear it. May I?” He gestures to the book lying open in front of her.

“Of course.” She hands it to him, their fingers brushing lightly against each other as he takes it.

“ _A Modest Proposal_ ,” the Auror reads aloud. “Jonathan Swift.”

“Yes, do you know his work?”

Theseus nods approvingly. “He makes most convincing arguments for an infantile diet, does he not?”

“Of course!” Leta exclaims with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm. “It was the first Muggle book I read, actually.” She hesitates, then adds, tentatively, “Newt gave it to me.”

“I know. He owled me to ask that I send him a very specific edition. Promised to give me all of his allowance for the following year if I would do so.”

She didn’t know that. It doesn’t surprise her, though; not when Newt had handled the beautiful leather-bound, gold-engraved volume with such care.

“That was the year he was expelled, of course,” Theseus continues. “I told him he could keep his allowance, since his life was already miserable enough.”

Theseus’s tone is jovial, but the words are like a dagger to her heart. Something must show on her face, because the Auror frowns. “Leta?” he says with concern. “Are you alright?”

Leta opens her mouth to say…she doesn’t know what, exactly.

“I’m sorry,” is all she can think of. “I really am.”

There is, to her horror, a quiver in her voice.

That clearly isn’t convincing enough. “Leta,” Theseus says gently, taking one of her hands in his. “I know that I was…harsh…when we first met, and for that I am truly sorry. As Newt persists in reminding me, it was nothing short of petty for me to hold such anger against you for something that happened twelve years ago.”

“It was understandable,” Leta replies, fighting to keep her tears back and her voice steady. “And well-deserved.”

“Leta, look at me.” The Auror’s voice is sterner – though still kind – and reluctantly she obeys. “I don’t know what you were like when you were sixteen. I don’t know what you deserved then. But I know you now, and I was wrong.”

His gaze is piercing, yet kind. “Are you all right?” he asks.

She swallows. Gives him a small nod.

“I am.”

“Good.” He releases her hand, slowly. It almost feels just a little bit unwilling.

“I still have the book.” She doesn’t add that it’s one of the few personal possessions in her sparse apartment. That it’s one of the most precious things she will ever own, because it is some evidence that, for at least a couple of years, there was someone who knew her and yet still cared for her.

Theseus smiles, warm and reassuring. “Good,” he repeats. It shines bright, a shimmer of redemption.

* * *

The annual Ministry of Magic Christmas ball is always a grand affair, one of the other assistants informs Leta. It’s a chance for female employees to step out of their painstakingly bland professionalism, to strike back after a year of patiently putting up with the aggressive masculinity and casual chauvinism that dominates many of the Ministry departments (and if the weapons of choice are designed to leave their victims with frustrated arousal and damaged egos, then so much the better). An opportunity to flirt with (and perhaps seduce) the highest-ranking officials in the country sans fear of compromising professional positions.

Leta despises balls. She despises flirting, insofar as it involves interacting with men towards whom she is best ambivalence.

She refuses invitations to afternoon tea with the other ladies, trying her best not to make clear her disdain for the notion of discussing eligible bachelors and how best to do her hair over cheap champagne.

A cup of tea, the same professional bun (though she wears it a little lower than usual and pinned towards the right side of her head in reluctant deference to the mood of the occasion) – that’s all she needs.

That and an owl from Theseus Scamander, with a simple question on expensive paper –  

_I trust I will see you tonight?_

_Theseus Scamander._

 

Theseus, who is situated firmly at the top of the ‘Most Eligible Bachelors’ list.

Leta cannot hold back a smile as she turns over the piece of parchment. On the reverse side, she writes –

_Barring the appearance of a good book – yes, you will._

_Leta_


End file.
